TITLE: If She Does Not Return
SPOILER WARNING: Gethsemane/Redux/Redux II
RATING: PG-13 for sexual thoughts and situations, and also for language
and emotional content.
CONTENT WARNING: Scully/other. MSR, but not your standard MSR. Major
MulderAngst.
CLASSIFICATION: VRA
SUMMARY: If you love something, set it free....
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not trying to be coy with my keywords; really I'm
not. I hate stories that hide things from the reader and then tease you
about it -- the kind of story where you go through the whole piece
thinking you're watching Mulder and Scully together, and then find out
in the last line that it was really Melissa he was screwing, or
whatever. And this is not that kind of a story. But the "other" next
to Scully's name, above, is legitimate, because even *I* don't know who
it represents. I don't even know if it's one of the characters from the
TV show, or someone we've never met, and it doesn't seem to me to be
important.
DEDICATION: This one's for Eleanor.
If She Does Not Return
by Brandon D. Ray
If you love something, set it free. If it does not return, it was never
yours in the first place.
Isn't that how the old saying goes?
What a crock of shit.
There's a variation on that saying: If you love something, set it
free. If it does not return, hunt it down and kill it.
That one makes a bit more sense to me, at least at the moment -- except,
of course, that I could never, ever kill her. Far better just to kill
myself.
Not that THAT would really solve anything, either. I've actually worked
through my suicidal streak, at long fucking last -- that business
involving Michael Kritschgau cut just a little too close to the bone,
and by the time it was over I no longer had even the slightest twinge of
interest in putting an end to my own sorry existence. So now even that
option is closed to me. Besides, if I did that I'd be denying myself
the opportunity to hurt, to feel pain.
God, where is she?
Strike that. I know where she is. And I know who she's with. And
worst of all, I have a pretty good idea of what she's doing. What THEY
are doing.
And it's all happening because of my own stupidity.
I gave her permission, you see. And none of that non-verbal
communication bullshit, either: I flat out gave my consent. I said,
"Look, Scully, if you're that hot for the guy, why don't you just ask
him? I bet he'd say yes."
I could lie. I could claim that I wasn't serious. I could claim that
it was just a joke, and that by the time I realized she was taking it
seriously there was no honorable way for me to back out.
I could lie. I could claim that it was just something that popped out
of my mouth, unconsidered, and that I would never in a million years
have said such a thing if I'd just taken a minute to think it through.
I could lie. I could claim that I was bluffing, and that I never
thought she'd take me up on it.
Hell, I could even claim that I was momentarily possessed by a demon.
Scully and I work on the X-Files; it could happen.
But I can't do that; I can't lie about this, not to myself, and most
certainly not to her. The truth is too important to me, to us. And
the truth of the matter is that I meant every word, and that I said what
I said after careful, serious introspection and reflection. The truth
of the matter is that I thought I could handle it, and that I thought I
was too sophisticated and mature to let something like this throw me.
The truth of the matter is that I thought I was a stronger person, a
better person, than I really am.
She didn't take me up on it right away, of course. That wouldn't be
Scully. With her it's always due deliberation and serious
consideration. It's always careful analysis and thorough examination.
It's always clear-eyed research and objective evaluation. So at the
moment I made the remark she just shrugged it off, and we went on to
talk about something else. But even then I could see that the wheels
had started turning in her head.
So I wasn't too surprised when, a few days later, she hesitantly asked
me if I'd been serious when I said she should give it a shot. And of
course I said I had been serious, and that she should go ahead and do it
if that was what she really wanted.
I thought I could handle it, you see. I thought I was strong and
sophisticated. Mature.
It was yesterday afternoon when I had the first glimmer that maybe I was
wrong about that. Yesterday afternoon, right after lunch, when she
returned to our newly-reacquired office and informed me that she had
spoken to him, and that he was also interested. Yesterday afternoon
when she diffidently asked me if Friday evening -- tonight -- would be
okay. And of course, I said it would be fine.
Fine.
And it was also yesterday afternoon when I felt the first distant
warning, deep in the pit of my stomach, that maybe this wasn't such a
good idea after all. Yesterday afternoon when I started to have second
thoughts, and wonder if maybe I wasn't making a big mistake. Yesterday
afternoon when it stopped being hypothetical and suddenly was very, very
real, and everything started unraveling at the edges.
I pushed those feelings back down inside, though. I didn't want to feel
like that; I didn't want to be jealous, especially not of someone as
fine and decent as he is. Let's face it: My Scully can pick 'em, and
this man would be an excellent choice for her. If she were not involved
with me, this is the sort of man I'd want to see her involved with.
This is the sort of man who could make her happy, and that's what it's
all about, right?
And certainly it's petty and small-minded of me to begrudge her one
night, right? I mean, don't we all, once in a great while, get that
wistful desire to experiment a little bit, and find out what it would be
like with someone else? And don't we all occasionally find ourselves
getting sufficiently close to another person that we want to share this
with him or her, even if just for a single night? Don't we all
sometimes want to scratch where it itches?
Well, no, actually, we DON'T all have those feelings. In fact, I
haven't felt that way about anyone but Scully for a very long time.
Years. But that doesn't mean I don't understand such feelings. I may
not actually be a psychologist, but I do have a background in
psychology, if you understand the distinction I'm trying to make, and I
have some understanding of human emotions and sexuality -- enough to
know, at least in my head, that Scully is not turning away from me, that
she's not rejecting me, and that she certainly doesn't love me any less.
But that's my head talking, not my heart.
Ah, hell...what time is it? Eleven o'clock? Great. The evening is
still young, but it's starting to get old. I've been channel surfing
for the past three hours, alternating that with pacing through my
apartment and just lying on my beat up old sofa staring at the ceiling.
Yes, the evening is still young, but it's old enough that the first of
several scenarios I'd worked out is probably not going to come true.
Scully is not going to show up on my doorstep this evening, teary-eyed
and out of breath, and fall into my arms weeping because she realized at
the last minute that she could go through with it.
Nope. Not going to happen. If that HAD been going to happen, it would
have happened by now. Probably no later than eight or nine o'clock.
And since she hasn't arrived and she hasn't called (Scenario 1B), that
means that they went ahead and went out to dinner or whatever they had
planned (I didn't ask, and she didn't volunteer). And by now they are
either back at his place, or they are on their way and soon will be.
It occurs to me that I could go there. I don't have to go inside, or
even let them know I'm around, but I could go there. I could get in my
car and drive over there, and stay just long enough to assure myself
that they've arrived safely and didn't get in an accident or something.
That my Scully and this man whom I respect so deeply are not at this
moment struggling for life in an emergency room somewhere, or stretched
out on slabs in a morgue. I could go there....
Who am I kidding? Not myself, certainly. The real reason I'm tempted
to go over there is because part of me wants to break this up, and
another part of me just wants to wallow in the pain of watching her walk
into his home with her arm around his waist. Maybe they'd stop in the
doorway for a slow, passionate kiss, and I could watch. Sure, I could
watch them kiss; that'd be fun. And after awhile they'd go on inside,
and I could track their progress by watching the lights go on and off.
First the living room light would go on. Certainly that one would be
first. And it would stay on for awhile, while he hung up their coats
and maybe put some music on the stereo. The kitchen light, too -- maybe
the kitchen light would come on, while he made some coffee or hot cocoa
or perhaps some tea. Then the kitchen light would go off, and the two
of them would sit on the sofa for awhile drinking their coffee and
chatting. And finally they'd reach for each other, and they'd start
kissing again....
See? I don't really need to go over there; I can imagine the action
quite well from here.
I get up and start pacing again.
# # #
I have other scenarios worked out, of course, and as I make the circuit
from my bedroom to my living room to my kitchen and then back again, I
go over them in my mind.
Scenario 1 is out, and so is Scenario 1B. It's too late in the evening
for either one of them to come true, and I never really believed in
them, anyway. My Scully knows herself too well and is too much in
control of her own behavior for that to happen.
I don't really believe in Scenario 2, either, but we're still in the
window of time where it could theoretically happen. Scenario 2 is where
they get as far as his living room sofa, and start to get intimate, only
to have one or both of them realize that This Just Isn't Right. As I
said, this isn't very likely; if Scully were going to have second
thoughts, she would have had them already -- probably before she ever
went to talk to him on Thursday. And so I wouldn't be here alone in my
apartment having my guts wrenched out.
Scenario 3...oh, hell, Scenario 3 isn't very likely, either. That's the
one where they try to go through with it, but he's had too much to drink
and passes out or can't get it up or some such, and the two of them take
this as a sign that It Wasn't Meant to Be.
Then we come to the bad ones. The ones where they actually do the deed.
Scenario 4 is the first of those, and the least disturbing of that
particular subset. In Scenario 4, they carry out the act but don't
enjoy it -- and yes, before you even say it, I know it's petty and
small-minded of me to hope for Scenario 4, and I've done my best not to
do so. But I can't help thinking about it, anymore than I can help
thinking about Scenario 4B, in which Scully realizes that no one can
really please her the way I can.
Scenario 5 is a little more realistic, but not much: In Scenario 5 I do
allow them to enjoy it, but they are left in moral distress over what
they've done. Not really very realistic, as I stand here in front of my
fish tank thinking about it. Neither he nor Scully are the type to
enter into an act like this with so little thought and consideration
that they would be likely to have such regrets.
I turn away from the fish and go back to lie on the sofa again. The TV
is on -- some sort of monster movie -- but I really don't care, and I
stretch out and stare at the ceiling some more, reviewing the rest of my
scenarios.
Scenario 6. Ah, yes, Scenario 6. In Scenario 6 my fears really start
to come to the forefront. In this scenario they carry out their
intentions -- hell, let's use the words, and say that they fuck each
other's brains out -- and they both enjoy it and have such a good time
that they want to do it again. Not often; not even every month -- just
once in awhile. Just often enough that I'm never quite able to put the
matter out of my mind and really enjoy my time with Scully and be
comfortable with her.
And finally there's Scenario 7. The killer scenario. The one which my
mind knows to be a lie, but which in my heart of hearts I fear will turn
out to be the truth. In Scenario 7 they realize how much they love each
other, and I'm left alone in my apartment to wallow in my pain and
self-abnegation. Forever.
# # #
It's nearly one o'clock in the morning now, and I'm still lying on the
sofa staring at the ceiling. It's one o'clock in the morning, and
that's late enough to eliminate from any further consideration all of
the scenarios in which they fail to fuck each other. By now they are in
bed together, naked, their bodies glistening with the sweat of their
pleasure. Two empty wine glasses sit on the bedside table, and a pair
of candles provide the only illumination.
They've already completed their first act of intercourse, and now
they're resting in each other's arms, cuddling and talking and quietly
necking, catching their breath and waiting for the urge to rise within
them again.
I told you I didn't have to go over there.
In the back of my mind a small part of me is actually aroused by the
image of them making love, but even I am not so pathetically stupid as
to follow through on that thought. I will admit to voyeuristic
tendencies, but to lie here and masturbate while I fantasize about the
woman I love screwing another man -- that would not be an act of
pleasure and release. It would be an act of emotional self-mutilation.
Past one o'clock now. Whenever I focus on it time seems to drag, but
then I can let my thoughts drift and the next thing I know an hour has
passed, or two, or even three. The analytical part of me, the part
which studied psychology at Oxford all those years ago, recognizes that
I have slipped into a state of fugue, but that knowledge seems distant
and irrelevant.
I jerk back to consciousness and sit up suddenly and glance at the
clock. Four a.m. I haven't really been asleep, but I haven't exactly
been awake, either. But now I am fully alert and conscious, and
inevitably my thoughts drift back to her. To them.
They're asleep now, or at least they could be. But are they still
together? I realize with a start that I don't know. I don't know what
her plans were in that regard, and suddenly I desperately need to know.
Somehow the idea that she might spend the night sleeping in his arms is
even more upsetting to me than the act which I know they must have
completed by now, probably more than once.
There is a special intimacy to sleeping with someone, an intimacy that
goes beyond sex. This is a comparatively new revelation for me,
something I've only just discovered since I've been with Scully, and
it's not something I'm ready to share with anyone, no matter how decent
and honorable a man he may be. On top of all my other faults -- and
they are legion -- I'm selfish....
I'm on my feet and moving towards the front door before I have a chance
to second guess myself. This time I'm going to do it; I'm going to get
in my car and I'm going to drive to his home and I am fucking well going
to sit there in my car and wait until noon if I have to, but I am going
to know if she spent the night there. I grab the door handle and give
it a savage twist and I pull the door open....
....and then I gently shut the door again. I can't do this to her; I
can't betray her trust. I close my eyes and take a deep, shaky breath,
and I lean against the door for a moment to keep myself from collapsing
to the floor. And after another moment I straighten up and open my
eyes, and I walk back over to my sofa and stretch out on it again.
And finally, at long, long last, I fall asleep. And mercifully, I don't
dream.
And I awake to the smell of coffee brewing, and I know that she has
returned.
Fini
Go to the sequel.